


Bread of Angels

by wingstocarryon (hollyrowan)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Neglect, Food, Gen, Hurt Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Original Character(s), Time Travel, Weechesters, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:36:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6758056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyrowan/pseuds/wingstocarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean was making soup when he first noticed the man in the trench coat. </i>
</p><p>  <i>He was wearing a tan trench coat and a blue tie. He was sitting across the motel parking lot, staring straight ahead of him in a kind of fixed way. And what was straight ahead of him was their door. </i></p><p>  <i>Dean glowered out the window at him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1

Dean was making soup when he noticed the man in the trench coat.

It was cream of mushroom and Sam was going to complain again. Sam hated cream of mushroom. Okay, they both did – it was gross. But Dean wasn’t a complainer.

The man in the trench coat was sitting on a bench on the other side of the  _Glassy Mills_  motel parking lot. Dean could just see him out the window of their room. The man wasn’t doing anything. He was just sitting there.

Dean noticed him because Dean noticed everything, especially things that had been there for five hours. It was probably just some guy staying at the motel, right? Dean squinted out the window again while he stirred.

“Sammy! Soup.”

Sam, who was doing something with legos under the bed, came crawling out. He was streaked with dust and his hair was half standing on end and matted with what looked like rust. 

“Aw man,” he said. “Cream of mushroom? Gross.”

Dean told him to suck it up and went to get spoons. As he got the spoons he glanced out the window again.

The man was still there. Right across from them. On the bench. He was wearing a tan coloured trench coat and a blue tie. And he was staring straight ahead of him in a kind of fixed way. And what was straight ahead of him was their door. 

Dean glowered out the window at him.

“What?” said Sammy. “What’s out there?”

“Nothin’,” said Dean. “Don’t sit there. Sit on the other side.” He pushed Sammy out of the chair he’d been in and pointed to the one on the other side of the table. 

“Why?” said Sam.

“Because that side’s yours.”

“They’re the same.”

“That side has butter in it.”

Sam looked at the soup dubiously. “But this is mushroom,” he said. 

“So?” said Dean. 

“You don’t put butter in mushroom,” he said. “Nobody likes mushroom, even with butter. You put butter in tomato.”

“Nobody likes butter in any soup, except you. Because you’re weird,” said Dean. 

“Mushroom’s gross.”

“Well tough luck. It’s yours.”

Dean went over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. He pulled out the .45. Sammy was watching him with extremely narrowed eyes. 

“Or what?” said Sammy loudly. “You’re gonna shoot me?”

“I  _might!_ ”

Sam glared obstinately at him. Dean sat down on his side of the table facing the door and put the gun next to his soup bowl. He picked up his spoon and took a hearty bite.

He got a big, sweaty piece of mushroom. He felt his eyes water as he gagged, forcing it down. He took a big gulp of water hastily, still feeling it crawling in his throat. He looked away from Sammy's sympathetic wince.

There was silence. Dean put down his spoon.

“Let’s eat the peanut butter instead,” said Dean.

“Yeah,” said Sammy. Sammy scrambled up to get the peanut butter from the cabinet next to the sink, and that’s when it happened. 

There was a knock on the door.

*

They both froze, Sam crouched next to the cabinet, and Dean at the table, clutching the gun next to his soup bowl. From where he was sitting Dean could just make out the bench out the window. It was empty.

The door was locked, he knew, but that wouldn’t make a difference to a monster.

He glanced at Sammy and Sammy looked back at him with wide eyes.  _Stay down_  Dean mouthed. Sammy clutched the peanut butter and nodded.

Dean picked up the gun and stepped towards the door. His heart was pounding in his ears. He raised the gun and aimed it at the centre of the door and clicked off the safety.

“Who is it?” he called. Even in his own ears his voice sounded high and nervous.

“A friend,” said a deep voice.

Dean snorted. Well, it was a liar. First clue.

“What’s your name?” he called. He kept the gun steady as he walked closer to the door, pointing slightly upwards, towards where grown man’s chest would be. He kept his fingers loose and careful on the handgrip as he went up on his toes and put his eye to the peephole.

“I’m… the… pizza man,” said the voice.

It was the man in the trench coat all right, but he was now clutching a pizza box under one arm. He was looking at the door with a slightly hopeful expression.

Dean glanced at Sam, who looked back at him incredulously. 

“We didn’t order any pizza,” Dean called. “Wrong room, buddy.”

Wrong room, _right_. Cause pizza delivery people always hung out on motel benches staring at your door for five hours before they delivered your pizza. Yeah. Not because they were sitting for five hours and watching your room because they were watching  _you,_  and delivering pizza was an  _excuse_ , a  _trick_ to get you to open the door.

“It’s a free… promotion,” said the voice.

Sam was looking hopeful. Dean shook his head severely.  _Monster,_ he mouthed. Sam’s eyes widened and he swallowed. He was still clutching the peanut butter like a lifeline.

Dad had been gone a week already. He’d warned them not to let anyone in. Dean knew the motel owner, knew everyone in the surrounding area by sight. Dad had warned him that he was to be careful. Dad was good, Dad was the best, but -- 

 _Stay down,_ he mouthed at Sam. Sam nodded.

“Alright,” Dean called, breathing fast. “I’m letting you in.”

He kept the gun steady with his right hand as he reached for the latch and chain with the other. He unlocked the door and stepped back quickly.

The door swung open. The man stepped forward into the doorway, his trenchcoat falling around him like a gust of wind.

Dean fired and fired again.

*

The man staggered back and his hand went to his chest. He’d dropped the pizza box and blood was staining the front of his coat, blooming dark.

“Run, Sammy!” Dean yelled. “Run!”

He heard Sammy scramble for the back of the room and the back window. He kept the gun pointed at the trench coated monster, whatever he was. He was going to go down any second, Dean told himself. Any second now. He’d keel over and Dad would come home soon, Dad must be right on his tail if he’d gotten here first. Dad would know what to do.

A blue-white light glowed between the man’s hand and his chest, outlining the fingers of his hand against the coat, and when he took the hand away, the blood was gone. Just gone like it had never been there at all.

Dean swallowed. What kind of creature had healing powers like  _that?_

“ _Run, Sammy!”_ he croaked.

“No,” the creature said, stepping forward, raising his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dean,” it said. Dean registered the sound of his name with a weird surprise, his fingers tightening on the trigger.

He fired.

And again.

The bullets ripped through the man’s chest and the noise of each shot ripped through Dean’s head and he almost felt deaf but somehow, the man didn’t stop. His body jerked with each bullet but he kept coming, his eyes fixed on Dean. Through the ringing in his ears, Dean heard him say what sounded like “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Then he was right in front of Dean. “Please,” he said in his deep voice. He raised his hands slowly towards Dean’s gun.

Dean was frozen. 

The man’s hand touched the gun, gently. 

“NO!” screamed Sammy from behind him. Something hit the man in the middle of the forehead and bounced off and the man stepped back in surprise. Dean looked down and saw the peanut butter jar rolling across the carpet.

“Dean!” yelled Sammy.

Dean choked down his urge to laugh, or maybe cry. 

“Sammy, go,” he hissed. 

The man in the trench coat crouched down. “Sam?” he said in his gravelly voice, “I’m not going to hurt you or your brother—” 

He spoke quietly, as though he was trying to convince them he was no threat. 

 _“How do you know my name?”_  Dean said. “How did you find us?  _What did you do to Dad?_ ”

“I didn’t do anything to your father,” the man said, straightening up and looking back at Dean, a note of desperation in his voice. “I promise.”

But Dean was done with this. He raised the gun – see if he could heal from a shot to the head.

“ _Who are you?_ ”

“My name is Castiel.” He spoke staring straight past the gun, straight at Dean. “I found you because you prayed to me. I’m an angel of the Lord.”

He said it simply, and he didn’t blink. Dean felt like he was being looked straight through, like Superman’s X-ray vision was going right through him. 

Prayed to him?

“No I didn’t,” said Dean automatically.

The monster held his gaze for a long moment. Then he tilted his head slightly. “Do you believe that no one listens?” he said in his deep voice.

“You’re lying,” said Dean.

The – whatever he was –raised his chin towards Sam, still standing a pace behind Dean. 

“He prayed too,” he said. “Tonight he actually prayed for…” Castiel cleared his throat. “Pizza.”

Dean glanced at Sam. Sammy was moving from foot to foot, tears of worry in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“He’s lying,” said Dean again, automatically. “He’s not an angel. There’s no such thing as angels.”

Sam was looking between him and the – whatever it was –  _Castiel._

“You don’t have to believe in me if you don’t want to,” said the man. “But please know that I am not going to hurt you.” Moving slowly, he moved to the overturned chair, righted it, and sat down. He moved stiffly, as though he was very tired. 

Dean didn’t lower his gun. He was out of ammo, but maybe the guy didn’t know that. He held it steady.

“Dean, Sam,” Castiel said, looking at each of them in turn, that same quizzical, concerned expression in his eyes. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here because I need your help.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They sat close together on the floor and ate the pizza with the gun next to them and if they sat closer together than usual Dean didn’t say anything about it. They were close enough that he could feel Sammy’s warmth through the cotton of Sam’s pyjama sleeve and his own tee shirt. It made him feel better._

Sammy was gazing at Castiel with saucer-wide eyes.

“He’s lying,” said Dean roughly. “He’s not really an angel. Don’t believe him.”

“Why do you need our help?” said Sammy bravely, through his worry.

“I was tracking an… enemy,” said Castiel. “I followed her here. To this time. This place.”

He looked around the motel room, absently at the legos on the floor, the soup bowls on the table.

“Once I was here she attacked me – weakened me. Then I heard you.” He looked at Dean. “Of course, you weren’t addressing me by name, but I heard you because I know your voice… angels can hear those who have prayed to them before. Anyway. You boys… you weren’t far away. That must be why....”

Sam glanced at Dean. Dean’s gun had lowered, slightly.

“What kind of enemy?” said Dean.

Castiel didn’t answer. He got up instead and walked heavily to the front door. With a slight movement a long silver blade appeared in his hand. Dean raised the gun again belatedly, but all Castiel did was slice his own palm, and then smear the blood onto the door in an odd shape, like a weird, messed-up letter. Then he walked to the back wall – Sam and Dean backed out of his way –and did the same thing there.

“You will be protected now,” said Castiel heavily. “As long as you’re in here.”

“Why do you need our help?” said Sam again, very quietly.

Castiel’s hand went to his chest. “I am weakened,” he said.

He looked from one to the other of them, as though weighing them up. Sam moved imperceptibly closer to Dean.

Castiel’s gaze dropped to the floor.

He shook his head slightly.

“You must stay safe,” he intoned. “I cannot risk… I will protect you." He looked up, and then said simply. “To my last breath.”

Sam was standing right at Dean’s elbow.

“We don’t need your help,” said Dean loudly. “We can look after ourselves. Our Dad’s coming home. He’ll be here any minute, and you can bet your ass he’ll know what you are. So don’t try to trick us. It won’t work.”

Castiel looked back at Dean’s angry determination and his eyes softened. He smiled. “Dean,” he said. “It’s good to see you. You boys,” he said ruefully. “Shoot first, ask questions later. Am I right?”

When neither of them answered, he said “But I admit your choice of ammunition has changed.”

He looked at the peanut butter gravely.

And then he disappeared.

*

Dean found himself breathing hard. He looked down at the gun in his hand. His hand was trembling.

Get a grip on yourself, stupid. Get a grip. He’s gone. Why would you fall apart now? Get it together.

Okay. First things first.

“Is he gone?” said Sam.

“Yeah I – I think so. Get the salt.” _Establish a perimeter._ Sammy scrambled to the cupboard and pulled out a box of table salt. Dean stumbled over to the bedside table, pulled out the ammo and reloaded the gun. _Assess weapons and ammunition._ His fingers fumbled a little over it and when he was done he had to blink at the room to see it straight. There was only him and Sam.

He could put the safety on. He did that.

He felt better with that done.

“Dean?” said Sam.

“You okay?” said Dean.

“Who _was_ he?” said Sam.

“I don’t know, Sammy.”

“He left us the pizza…”

*

They salted the doors and windows and then they ate the pizza. They sat close together on the floor and ate the pizza with the gun next to them and if they sat closer together than usual Dean didn’t say anything about it. They were close enough that he could feel Sammy’s warmth through the cotton of Sam’s pyjama sleeve and his own tee shirt. It made him feel better.

They sat quietly and watched the door and after a while Sam said “I’m sorry I prayed for pizza.”

Dean said, “I’m not. This is awesome.” It was pepperoni and it _was_ awesome.

“But how did he know?” said Sam.

Dean took another bite. He was trying not to think about that.

“He was lying,” Dean said after a pause. He chewed slowly. “Maybe he guessed. I mean, who _wouldn’t_ want pizza.”

Sam smiled at that. Dean grinned back.

He picked up another piece and took a bite. It was so good. The warm cheese and bread filled his mouth, and he felt the warmth spread through him like liquid, making him relax, making all the little aches and pains go away. His hand shook a little when he reached for a piece, the way Dad’s hand sometimes shook when he needed whiskey. He shoved it in his mouth. It was hard to stop.

When he realized they’d eaten two thirds of of the whole pizza, he closed the box. No point wasting breakfast tomorrow.

Sam was licking his fingers.

“We should call Dad,” said Dean.

“But he said not to call. He was mad that time with Principal Hansen.”

“Yeah, well. He’d want to know about this.”

“Yeah.”

“Dad’ll know what that guy is,” said Dean. “And whatever the heck made up story he was talking about.”

“Yeah,” said Sammy.

“If he doesn’t pick up we’ll leave a message. He’ll be here by morning,” said Dean. “I bet.”

“Yeah,” said Sam.

 * 

“He didn’t look how I thought,” said Sammy pensively.

“How’d you mean?

“He didn’t have any wings and he wasn’t a lady in a white dress.”

“That’s because he wasn’t an angel,” said Dean roughly.

They were in bed, looking at each other across the gap between the beds. Sammy under his blue blanket, the one he carted everywhere. Dean was in what was Dad’s bed when he was home.

“But he healed the bullets,” said Sam.

“Other things can heal stuff like that,” said Dean, moving onto his back. “Werewolves can heal everything except silver.”

“Yeah, but,” said Sam, “the bullets were silver, weren’t they?”

Dean didn’t say anything, cause the answer was yes. Silver and consecrated lead rounds. The gun had been loaded with two of each. Dad said that was safest, that way Dean wouldn’t have to stop and re-load. You just take down whatever comes through that door. Two shots, four if you need ‘em.

Look how well that had worked.

“He was an angel, Dean,” said Sam sleepily. “I wonder what happened to his wings. He didn’t have any wings.”

Sam had been quiet, his breathing even and slow, for a long time before Dean whispered back. His words were almost too quiet even for himself to hear.

“He wasn’t an angel.”

He clenched his hands tight underneath the scratchy motel bedcover.

He wasn’t. He just wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

*

Castiel had thought he would be prepared for this. For seeing them as children.

But he hadn’t been. He wouldn’t have been prepared, he thought, with an epoch to think it over. Even two. Even ten.

Cas sat on the lumpy bed in the motel room next door, his head spinning. Once again humanity – Dean and Sam – had surprised him. Nothing could have prepared him for the Dean who swung open the door, not only smaller and shorter but _different,_ shining through with the bright … light would be one way of saying it, but it wasn’t light, it was essence. It was Dean, but less hardened, less crystalized. Purer, younger. And Sam, so bright, all fresh interest. Watching and judging everything, deciding what he thought in each second. Sam who had been pretending, under the bed, that he was building a house for him and his brother.

He closed his eyes briefly, sitting stiffly in the dark, and saw again Dean’s youthful face.

And the mistrust in Dean’s eyes, the panic as he fired that pistol. Cas had hardly felt the impacts of each bullet, even the odd feeling of the metal exploding into his shattered cells. He’d been too shocked that Dean didn’t know him.

That Dean didn’t trust.

Foolish, he told himself. You knew it would be this way.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t known. And he didn’t understand.

He heard again Dean’s prayer in his head. _Mom…_

It had been shortly after he followed Lorelei here. They’d fought as she jumped through time, slipping and turning from him, the two of them compressed together in that infinite turn of an instant as time snapped by them like an elastic band. Jumping through time always tired him. Of the things he could do with the power of his grace, it was one of the hardest.

She’d regained her feet and senses sooner than him. His grace was dimmed by the jump. _Batteries drained_ as the boys would say. Lorelei had taken that moment to attack, ripped into him, wrenching her claws through his grace. He remembered a horrifying moment as it stretched from him, blue light caught in her claws like glue, stretched between them. He’d crumpled.

He’d thought it was time, then. He’d seen many angels die in battle and he’d always known he would be one of them.

But somehow he hadn’t died. He’d drifted, had come to himself he didn’t know how long later, the smell of crushed grass and blood mixing with the awareness of his damaged grace, an extra-physical sensation. If Dean were here he’d slap him, ask him what the Hell happened, make him focus on physical consciousness. The molecules of the universe buzzed under him and even that was almost too much. He let go…

A voice came to him through the fog.

 _Please,_ it said. _I need you._ Cas focussed on it.

“Dean?” he groaned.

He rolled over.

He was lying in a ditch, half in the water. His trench coat was muddied and torn, soaking wet and heavy. A latticework of branches showed against a grey sky.

He’d learned the colours of the sky when he first came here, when he first walked the earth, in his new vessel, unsteady and strange. He’d memorized what each hue of sky meant.

This overcast grey-purple meant it would be dark soon.

He turned his head. Lorelei was gone. There was no one around, just a grassy embankment with a wire fence at the top, and on the other side of him, overhanging the ditch, some trees. He could hear, distantly, the faint _whoosh_ of a car.

He sat up and groaned. His chest was lacerated still. Her claws had gone deep… he pressed a hand to the mass of wet and red and concentrated on knitting the tissues together, but the whine of his grace failing was all he heard.

In a moment, he thought. Just give me a moment. With difficulty he dragged himself out of the water, up the bank to the shelter of some trees. He huddled there, just breathing.

Slowly, his grace ebbed back into being. And as he sat, he heard the voice again. It was a prayer, he realized, in his head. Angel radio, as they jokingly called it. It crackled in his mind, like he was tuning in and out.

It was Dean’s voice.

It said, _Please. Please help. I don’t think I can do this alone. Come on, Mom…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the pizza survived! :D
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter! They all made my week. Let me know what you think. :)
> 
> More is coming (obviously).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He needed Dean to understand what they were up against. What Lorelei was, what she could do. Dean in the future would have been demanding answers already, pumping him for as much information as Cas could give and more._ But this isn’t your Dean, _Castiel reminded himself._ Not yet.

The door of the _Gas n’ Sip_ opened with a jingle and Dean pushed in to the stale air-conditioned interior. Kim looked up from behind the cash register. A middle-aged Korean woman, she wore her usual overlarge tee shirt and an expression of dour apathy that nothing could crack, but her eyes sharpened imperceptibly when she saw Dean. Dean plastered a grin on his face before he slipped between the aisles out of sight on his way to the magazine rack. He picked up the new _Road and Track_  and examined the picture of the ‘76 mustang on the cover.

“Where’s that brother of yours?” said Kim. “He need some more gum to keep him going? Bring him to come try the machine.” She reached over and patted the gumball machine.

“Thanks,” said Dean. “I’m sure he’d love that.” Sam was probably watching cartoons, because there wasn’t much else to do. He was definitely doing it with the door closed and locked and salted, because Dean had made double sure.

Kim leaned back in her cellotaped chair, her stained fingers cracking another chicklet from the package of nicotine gum she kept next to the cash register. Kim was trying to stop smoking, but Dean always saw her in the evenings when the store closed, walking past the motel with her smokes out. He smiled back at her, and put the _Road and Track_ back with regret. He ran his hand down the rack of magazines.

“You two must get bored,” said Kim.

Dean looked up sharply.

“With no other kids around,” said Kim.

“Oh,” said Dean, breathing again. “Nahhh. We’re fine.” He shrugged. “Dad’ll probably take us out to a movie or somethin’ tomorrow.”

“Got some old paperbacks you can have,” said Kim. “My niece and nephew outgrew them. Your brother like _Curious George?”_

Dean rolled his eyes. “Probably.” Sam was crazy for books.

“Bet you read to him. You’re a good brother.”

Dean snorted and looked away. Riighht. He’d left his brother locked up in the motel room while he got air. Great brother.

The motel room with the weird blood symbols on the walls and door. At least he’d be safe, according to … mister trench coat. Dean shivered.

“Come by later,” she said. “I’ll have them then. Don’t want them.”

“Thanks.” Dean nodded awkwardly. He waited till she went back to gazing at the ancient TV on the corner of her desk before he let his hand drift down to the other magazines. This one had a blond woman on the cover, looking up at him fixedly. She would be naked, except that she was kind of wearing her hair, which was sort of draped over her… chest. Dean chanced a glance at Kim, who was staring at the TV, and picked it up.

It was heavy and glossy in his hands. The woman’s smile caught the light, shiny. He flipped it open and caught a glimpse of smooth limbs and curved—

“Dean.”

He dropped it as he spun around, his heart suddenly in his throat. It was the same… deep voice…

Castiel was standing next to the soda drink display. He looked exactly the same as yesterday in his long coat and loose blue tie and ex-ray stare. Dean took a step back and collided with the magazine rack.

There was a wheeze of laughter from the direction of the cash register. Dean almost flinched again before he realized it was Kim.

“You, boy! You’ve been caught!” Kim was laughing, wagging a finger at him.

Castiel frowned at her in confusion.

“He’s a littttle short for eighteen,” said Kim meaningfully.

“Yes,” said Castiel. “He’s... approximately twelve.”

“Almost thirteen,” Dean muttered under his breath. He was half way there, anyhow.

“So you come to pick him up?” said Kim. She had gotten up from her chair and was leaning on the counter with interest. “You their dad?”

Cas looked back at her for a blank pause before Dean said wildly “He’s our uncle.”

“Oh,” said Cas. “Yes. He’s with me.” And reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm. Dean steeled himself against flinching, closed his teeth and said “Um, Uncle Jim.”

“Yes,” said Castiel after a pause. “My name is Jim.” He sounded vaguely robotic and Dean tried not to wince. Could the guy lie any more badly?

Luckily Kim didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve got some books for your boys,” she said to Castiel. “More age-appropriate than those magazines there.” She wagged her finger again. “Come back later, I’ll give them to you. I don’t want them.”

Castiel was smiling back at her. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind.” He seemed caught staring at her, smiling genuinely.

“Ooookay,” said Dean. “Moving on. Getting out of here.” The angel seemed to have his arm in a death grip but Dean gave them a hearty push in the direction of the door. He could still hear Kim chuckling.

 

As soon as they were outside Dean jerked away. “What the Hell, dude!”

“Dean,” said Castiel seriously. “What are you doing out of the motel room? I told you you would be safe in there.”

“Yeah, well, we needed some stuff,” muttered Dean. “And you need to stay the hell away from us.”

“I’m not going to do that. I told you, I’m here to protect you.”

“I thought you said you needed us.”

Castie’s face closed. “I am protecting you,” he repeated.

“Yeah well we don’t need it.”

Dean shouldered past Mister Trench Coat and kicked through the dusty weeds towards the highway. The Gas ‘n Sip was not far from the _Glassy Mills_ , a three-minute walk through the weeds on the shoulder of the highway.

Castiel glanced around to make sure there were no threats in the area. He focussed on the crow pecking at some roadkill on the other side of the road, but quickly assessed that it was just a bird. Apart from that it was just highway, weedy tall grass, fields on the far side of the road. They were alone.

Dean was ahead of him. He hurried to catch up.

“Dean,” he said again.

He needed Dean to understand what they were up against. What Lorelei was, what she could do. Dean in the future would have been demanding answers already, pumping him for as much information as Cas could give and more. _But this isn’t your Dean_ , Castiel reminded himself. 

Ahead of Cas, this Dean kicked a soda can out of the way as he strode down the dust-strewn, glass strewn side of the highway. His shoulders were hunched as though to ward off Cas’s words.

“Dean, please believe me. This thing, this thing that’s after us…. it’s dangerous. It could hurt other people, too.”

Dean slowed slightly.

“What do you think _we_ can do?”

“You can do a great deal,” Castiel said quietly. “I know that for a fact.”

Dean stopped. Turned. He looked extremely annoyed, as annoyed as an almost-thirteen year old could look. And on Dean’s face, that was very annoyed.

And slightly interested.

“Like what?” he said grudgingly.

“I don’t know,” admitted Cas. “I know you are a threat to her, and that is why she is… wanting to… that is why she is here. I don’t know how you are a threat, yet. It could be something you have, some item. An object in your possession, perhaps.”

Dean’s face spoke a thousand words of _What the hell ass answer is that._ Cas winced.

“An object, anything?” said Dean. “Like, Sam’s box of lego? What kind of intel even is this?”

“I got the information from a hunter.”

“A hunter?” Dean’s eyes sharpened. “Who? Is he any good?”

“Yes,” said Cas. “The best. He’s saved my life before.”

Dean looked sceptical, but at least he was listening.

“Fine,” said Dean. “You want me to believe you? Tell me how you know my name.”

“That might be difficult for you to believe.”

“You’ve already told me you’re an _angel,_ so hey, at least I can’t disbelieve you any more than I already do. Look on the bright side, buddy.” Dean kicked a puff of dirt towards the trench-coated being. It was hot out. Dean looked hot in his jacket.

Castiel felt a shadow pass them, a bird flying overhead. He focussed on it sharply, scouring the flapping wingbeats for signs of possession. Unlike demons, Lorelei could possess animals. It was how she had found him before, through the eyes of a crow.

This bird was grey-speckled, smaller. A sparrow. He didn’t see any of the _wrongness_ of a possessed creature’s true face, didn’t get an inkling of power from it. Just a bird. Still, there could be more creatures. He glanced at the sky.

“You need to get inside,” said Cas tensely. “We don’t have time for this. Take me to your room. I will look though the contents. Whatever it is will stand out to me.”

“Yeah, no. That’s not happening,” said Dean.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Castiel desperately. “You need to get somewhere inside, safe. And I need to defeat Lorelei. What do you have in your possession that could depower a celestial being?”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, pushing it backwards, bemusement and incredulity mixed on his face with a sort of fed up exhaustion. Twelve year old Dean looked tired, Cas thought. In a way that adult Dean might be in the middle of an apocalypse, but in an ingrained, helpless way. Like he always felt like this. Like he had other, more important things to think about.

“Depower a celestial being? Uh, you got me, dude.”

“Maybe I should talk to your father,” said Castiel. “Dean, your father would want you to be safe. I should talk with him.”

Dean’s fist clenched, his face suddenly hard, angry.

“Don’t talk to me about my dad,” he said.

As he swung around to keep on walking, something slipped from under his jacket and fell to the road. He bent quickly and picked it up, shoving it back under his arm. A box of crackers.

Castiel opened his mouth, diverted from whatever he had been about to say. “You stole from that woman?” he asked instead, frowning slightly.

Dean shrugged, not looking Cas in the face.

“So?” he mumbled.

“She was kind,” said Castiel. “She was going to give you books.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the world doesn’t care about kind,” said Dean. “Wait, is this some kind of heavenly inquisition? Am I going to hell now? For swiping a box of soda crackers?”

 

“I don’t think heaven is too concerned with that,” said Castiel wryly. “But your father might be.”

Something seemed to clench in Dean’s jaw.

“Yeah, well. He’s not here,” he muttered.

Cas followed Dean across the motel parking lot. He remembered again the glint of Lorelei’s eyes as she slashed his belly open. A screech sounded out, and Cas looked around, heart pounding. Then he realized it was a car with bad brakes, pulling into the motel parking lot.

“Shit,” said Dean, speeding up.

A woman got out. Bright yellow vinyl jacket and three-inch heels that didn’t slow her down an inch on her way to the motel office. Dean took a breath and made a beeline across the motel parking lot towards their door.

“You! Winchester kid!”

Dean stopped, his shoulders drawing up towards his ears. He turned and spoke overly politely.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Remind your father he’s paid up until tomorrow,” she said. “Then I’ll need a new cheque. You got that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Dean. “I’ll tell him.”

He didn’t even seem to be aware of Castiel as he slipped into the motel room and closed the door behind him, the packet of crackers cradled under his arm.

 

 *

Cas closed the door of his own motel room quietly.

Cas had met children before. He remembered a baby in Rexford, when he had been human. And a little girl in a mechanic’s house, who told him a story about her dream. About snot and outer space. He smiled, remembering it. Small humans were so open, so purely themselves. He remembered her wonderful excitement at her dream. And when she offered him some of her cereal, some sort of wheat-based flake, he remembered, he could hardly do anything but take one.

He twisted his mouth, remembering the taste of the wheat molecules. Sort of… gritty and… too much. Food tasted different as an angel, not good. He remembered, distantly, what food had tasted like when he was human. PB&J. Pizza in the men’s shelter. The overwhelming wonderfulness of it. The need for it. The feeling of hunger, overwhelming.

The children had been hungry, he realized. Sam and Dean were hungry.

He could feel himself frowning, his right hand, his knife hand, clenching into a fist. He was disturbed. He turned this realization over in his mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm highly invested in this story, so don't fear, more will come! Sorry for the long delay, and thanks for your patience.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam threw himself back on the lumpy motel mattress, his arms splayed wide, and breathed up towards the ceiling. There was a water stain that looked a little like a dove.
> 
> Those other words he’d read were running through his mind.
> 
>  _Human beings ate the bread of angels; he sent them all the food they could eat._  
> 
> They'd eaten the pizza for breakfast. His stomach wasn’t hurting at all, and he didn’t feel empty.

Sam found the relevant passage and read it twice. Then he read it twice again, very slowly.

_Each of the four living creatures had six wings and was covered with eyes all around, even under its wings._

He squinted, trying to picture it. Was it human shaped? It didn’t say at all.

Flies had a lot of eyes, he reflected. He pictured a giant fly, with many eyes and lots of gossamer fly wings. It didn’t seem very heavenly.

They must be human shaped. Probably.

Castiel had had the normal number of eyes, though. And no wings at all. Though, he had disappeared. Maybe the wings were invisible. But then how had he left the room? Sam hadn’t seen him take off and crash through the wall.

Sam sighed and threw the Guideon Bible back into the bedside drawer. Much good that had been. Maybe it was wrong. Unless angels were like shifters, and could change their shape, from fly-angel-thing to human guy. But the Guideon didn’t say anything about shape changing at all.

Sam had read bits of the bible before, stuck in motel rooms with nothing to do. Reading something was better than nothing. Sometimes he found the words soothing, or exciting, even he didn’t always get what they meant.

He always bugged Dad, or more likely Dean, to bring him to the library first thing in every new town, and sometimes he even got a proper card and everything – he was excellent at forging an adult-looking signature and most libraries had forms you could take home for your “parents” to sign. But sometimes it just didn’t happen, and he was stuck with nothing to read. Psalms were his go-too bits to stave off boredom.

Sam threw himself back on the lumpy motel mattress, his arms splayed wide, and breathed up towards the ceiling. There was a water stain that looked a little like a dove.

Those other words he’d read were running through his mind.

_Human beings ate the bread of angels; he sent them all the food they could eat._

His stomach wasn’t hurting at all, and he didn’t feel empty.

 * 

Dean dropped the crackers on the table and pulled the can of tuna fish out of his pocket. He’d managed to grab one box and one can as he ducked through the aisles out of sight of Kim on his way to the magazine racks.

Nobody looks for two wrongs. Always hide one wrong under another, and people won’t look for the first, they’ll be so glad they thwarted you at the second. Look like you’re wandering into a store with no purpose, and every shopkeeper from here to the East Coast will make you turn out your pockets. But go for something illicit, like trying to look at the dirty mags, or trying to buy a pack of cigarettes with a fake ID, and everyone will put a stop to that, throw you out and think they’ve won.

They won’t even realize the fight is about something else entirely.

Getting caught after you’ve done something, especially something illegal, is bad. But getting caught about to do something won’t get you in the kind of 911 trouble that gets cops involved. Dean saw Kim on the phone, cops in his minds’ eye, asking where his father was. He pushed the image away. He was too good to get caught.

Anyway, Dad would be home soon. They’d get the hell away from Mister Trench, and Dad would drive them far away and then they’d visit all the diners they wanted.

He wiped the dust from the tuna fish can carefully, pushing the image of Kim’s laughing face out of his head. He didn’t care if she was nice. Nice adults were worse, actually, because they watched for abnormalities. And when you were hiding hunting, that made things harder. Kim had been picking at the Where’s Daddy scab for days now. Not by saying anything, but just by the way she watched.

Now she thought Mister Trench Coat was his uncle.

Dean didn’t know if that was a stroke of luck or a calamity. Castiel was a supernatural creature, whatever he was. Dean knew what to do with supernatural creatures, and it wasn’t this. Let them infiltrate your civilian life, become your cover to the civvies? He didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.

“Sammy,” he said, “peanut butter and crackers. Better than peanut butter with no crackers. Am I right?”

“I guess,” said Sam.

“Gee, don’t be too enthusiastic,” said Dean. He blinked, suddenly realizing that Sammy wasn’t watching cartoons. The TV wasn’t even on.

“Watcha doin’?”

“Reading,” said Sammy absently.

Sammy was sitting on Dean’s bed, reading Dad’s journal.

“Dude! What the Hell!”

Dean was there in a second, reaching for it. But Sam twisted in Dean’s grasp, wrenching it and himself away. Dean grabbed at Sam, trying to paw past him for the journal.

“We’re not supposed to look at that!”

Sammy twisted out of his hands and onto the floor. “Let me go! This is important!” he shouted. Dean lunged after him and got it.

“You know we’re not supposed to,” he said. “Where did you even get this?”

“It was in Dad’s duffle. He keeps it there.” He glared at Dean. “I was reading about angels.”

Oh, shit. That was a good idea. A really good idea, actually. He raised an eyebrow at Sam.

“You’re researching angels?”

“Of course,” said Sam scornfully. “We have to know what we’re dealing with.”

Dean blew out a quick breath. “Did Dad call back?”

“Naw.”

They’d never done this before, never just the two of them without Dad. And the journal was out of bounds. Nightmare fuel, he said. Don’t look at it. That’s an order.

Dad wasn’t here.

Dean had left seven messages, on two different phones, and Dad hadn’t answered once. And Castiel was out there, had followed him to the gas station, and all the way home…

Dean met Sammy’s serious, determined expression and made his decision.

He reached over, ruffled Sammy’s hair. He opened the journal again and sat down on the bed.

Sam crept up beside him, peering at the page with a picture of a vampire, fangs bared. He reached across Dean and turned the page to where he'd been.

“You find anything so far?” said Dean.

Sam shook his head.

“Not yet.”

* 

The argument about going to the library didn't take as long as Sam had expected. Dean insisted that the trench-coated guy couldn’t be an angel, but he had to admit that the guy had healed four bullet wounds. Clearly, he was something.

Dad didn’t pick up on the eighth call either. And there was nothing about angels in his journal.

The _Glassy Mills_ was located on the highway outside town -- not even in the town at all. It was too far to walk to the little library. They ducked in the back door of the local bus and succeeded in claiming a seat without being called on it.

“Maybe we should call Uncle Bobby. Or Paster Jim. Bet he’d know about angels.”

“Dad’s _with_  Pastor Jim, though,” said Dean.

“He is?”

“Yeah. They were tracking some sort of… I don’t know. Something Pastor Jim found.”

"Hmm," said Sam. 

Something was up with Dean. He was off. Usually Dean would come up with some story about what Dad was hunting, like Dad had told him everything. Even though he probably knew just as little as Sam.

Sam narrowed his eyes. Dean was glaring out the window, his shoulders hunched. Dean was worried. The angel had scared him, too, more than he wanted to admit. That’s why he’d agreed to the library. Or maybe he was worried about Dad. But Dad had failed to answer his phone before….

“He hasn’t done anything to us yet,” Sam said, comfortingly. “Maybe he’s not evil.”

Dean snorted.

 

It was a small town, and it was a small town library. There was only one room, and one desk.

Sam'd only been in it once, and he didn’t have a card. The branch insisted on parents being present to get one, so there was no point.

Still, the librarian gave Sam a quiet smile as he passed. She was an older lady, with grey hair. She looked friendly.

 

The children’s bible had lots of pictures of angels, but they all looked like a lady in a white dress with pretty swan wings. Some of them looked like a bare-chested man in a white sheet with pretty swan wings. None of them explained how something with six wings and lots of eyes could also look like a slightly intense guy in a trench coat. 

Sam sighed and flipped the book shut. Dean, he noticed, had already wandered over to the racks of cassette tapes.

He followed a lead into the self help section. He fingered _Prayer: Does it Make any Difference?_ , then opened _Angels, Vampires and Douche Bags._ The chapter was entitled “Beware of False Prophets and Fake Breasts,” and he read a few lines and quickly put the book away, blushing furiously. _Angel Detox: Taking Your Life to a Higher Level Through Releasing Emotional, Physical and Energetic Toxins_ was clearly useless, as was _How to See, Hear and Feel Your Angels._ He could already see Castiel. That was the problem.

There was nothing good in _Earth Angel Realms: Revised and Updated Information for Incarnated Angels, Elementals, Wizards and other Lightworkers,_ even though he spent too long looking through it to see what they meant by Incarnated Angels, in case that could be what Castiel was. It didn’t mention anything about being immune to bullets, so Sam figured not. _Angel Astrology 101: Discover the Angels Connected With your Birth Chart_ told him that he was a Taurus, his colour was “pale green,” and his birth stone was “fluorite,” something that sounded like a substance you’d find in old pipes. His angel was apparently the Archangel Chamuel. “Not to be confused with Samael, an 'angel' who has dark and destructive leanings,” he read. There was a picture of a winged man with dark red eyes. 

Sam shivered, and put the book back on the shelf.

*

“Anything?” said Dean.

Sam was reading everything in sight and it wasn’t doing a damn thing. Dean could already tell.

“Just more stuff about eyes,” said Sam. “But Castiel only has two.”

“Yeah, well,” said Dean tiredly. “Maybe he’s a shape shifter.”

“Except...”

“Silver,” said Dean.

They’d had this conversation about fifty times already. Dean stared at the page in frustration, the words blurring into nothing. A grey blur. Crackers, beef jerky, peanut butter, dry pasta... could you put peanut butter on pasta? That sounded grosser than the mushroom soup. He thought of Mrs. Hackman and he felt suddenly sick. He stood up.

Sam kept reading.

“I’m getting some water,” he said.

“‘K,” said Sam.

Dean put the book down harder than necessary. Sam barely jumped. Dean sighed.

It wasn’t Sammy’s fault that he could do that. Lose himself that way. Be gone inside a book, be somewhere else. But Dean couldn’t help being a bit jealous. Somehow he didn't have the knack. But Sammy could do that, be gone for hours.

The water was good and cold, but it did nothing to stop the empty, sick feeling in Dean’s stomach.

He was standing, blinking with tiredness, when a woman brushed past him. “You let me know if you need any help, dear,” she said as she passed him. A librarian, he thought. He had a brief impression of long blond hair, and a glimpse of her smile.

He realized he hadn't said anything back, and she was already heading into the shelves nearby. He shook himself and headed after her. There was something familiar about her voice. Maybe she would know about angels, and bullets, and wheels of fire with eyes. You never knew.

It was dim in the stacks. There were windows far above, but their beams of light shone down indirectly, not hitting everywhere. Dean didn’t bother looking at the titles, but glanced down one aisle and the next. She was at the end of a long row, her back to him, on a step stool, pulling books down from a shelf.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m just looking for… anything about angels...”

She was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, and her blond hair was in a messy ponytail. Something in his heart clenched when he saw it.

"Angels?" she said. "You need an angel?"

She said it like she was joking, and as she turned, her bangs fell in her face, and she reached up to push them out again. She looked down at him, and grinned, her hands in her pants pockets.

“You look like you could use some help,” she said.

She had a low voice, and Dean knew it. And Dean knew her.

All of his words were gone, except one.

“…Mom?”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, these are all real books (please forgive the fact that they're not all from the 80s. Shhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhhh).
> 
> And the Chamael/Samael thing is what the book actually says, no joke. [That was a direct quote](http://www.angeltherapy.com/archangel-chamuel).
> 
>  
> 
> Another notable jem [here](https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B004FGLY00/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1). .
> 
>  
> 
> I have a bit of an obsession with the Winchesters in libraries, probably because I have worked in libraries and spent far too many bored hours thinking about demonology (as one does). Sam and Dean always seem to find mysterious and useful tomes of lore in tiny small-town libraries that should be full of yellowed Agatha Christie paperbacks and books called [Knit Fast Die Young](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/b4/e1/fd/b4e1fd8321a528a1eca480ab2940cacd.jpg) or [Meow or Never](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/d5/97/e8/d597e8df510b335963974b15fb7fe942.jpg). The best Sam should be able to find on his angel search is something like [this](http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8049971-angels). At least it would give him an overview of the topic...
> 
> I used to think it was utterly ridiculous that the Winchesters find anything of any use to them in small public libraries. And then one of my coworkers found a book that, she said, needed to be kept. It was worn, clearly old, with a plain black cover and a spine that had been fixed with tape. No paper jacket. Thick, yellowed pages with medieval-looking woodcut illustrations. 
> 
> It was a late 18th century book on witchcraft. And someone, I don't know who, had ordered it.
> 
> So now I'm not so sure....

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued. The next two chapters are written and I will be posting the next part within the next few days. More is coming!
> 
> Please let me know what you think. 
> 
> <3


End file.
